Chapter 22
I have Enzo exactly where I want him. But not in the way men usually end up when they’re pussy-whipped—obedient, dimmed. No.
He’s still Enzo. Still dangerous.
He’s just pointed entirely at me.
Somewhere along the way, I started to trust him. Because he keeps showing up, keeps staying, keeps choosing me—even when I make it difficult.
And the love I buried so deep I thought it had fossilized—
It starts breathing again.
There’s something obscene about having a man like him unravel for you.
The kind of man other women whisper about, build fantasies around, pray notices them.
They dream.
I wake up next to him.
They hope for a glance.
His eyes don’t leave me.
They’d trade years of their lives for an hour of his attention.
I get it without asking.
It’s early morning. The room smells like sex and skin. I’m half-dazed, my body still humming from the way he took me apart and put me back together wrong. Enzo crosses the room naked, hair a mess, and hands me papers.
I blink at them. Then at him.
It’s way too early for this.
“What is this?”
“Sign them.”
I sit up slowly, the sheets pooling around my waist. “Enzo. That’s not an answer.”
“They’re access. Accounts. Holdings.”
I scan a page, my eyes widening when I see he’s giving me access to his bank accounts. “You’re out of your mind.”
“I’m perfectly clear.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my future. My present. My past.”
He crouches in front of me, forearms braced on the mattress.
And while I don’t doubt that anymore, I know him well enough to hear what he isn’t saying.
“Try again.”
“What’s mine is yours,” he says. “That part is simple.”
I push the papers back toward him. “I don’t want to be bought.”
His expression hardens. “This isn’t buying.”
“Then what is it?”
“Insurance.”
“Against what?”
“Against you running. Against the day you wake up and decide my obsession is too much. Against the moment you look at me and think, I can’t do this.”
Why would I ever do that? Who looks at a man so obsessed he’s willing to give them everything and thinks I need to run?
That person isn’t me.
“That if you leave,” he continues, “you don’t leave empty-handed. That you’re never powerless with me.”
I study him—the man who controls rooms, markets, people—offering leverage instead of taking it.
“And if your obsession scares me?” I ask quietly. I don’t even know why. Maybe to taunt him. It’s becoming my favorite hobby.
“Then I’ll chase,” he says. “Relentless. But never from above you.”
That answer would terrify any sane woman.
Turns out I’m not sane.
“Sign them,” Enzo says calmly.
That’s the dangerous version of him.
“If I ever run—”
“I won’t let you finish that sentence,” he cuts in, eyes locked on mine. “If you ever run, I want the game to be fair.”
A chill slides down my spine.
“You already have everything,” I say. “Money. Power. Reach.”
“Yes,” he agrees easily. “And I’ll use all of it. Influence. Obsession. Time. I don’t lose things that belong to me.”
“You’re not even pretending this is normal.”
And I love that it isn’t. I don’t want normal. I don’t want safe. I want worship. Obsession. I want to be the reason someone’s heart keeps beating.
“No,” he says. “I’m being honest. This protects you. When I become the thing that scares you, you won’t be empty-handed.”
This is what people don’t understand about Enzo Morelli. He isn’t cruel for the sake of it. He’s principled in a way that borders on monstrous.
“When a monster tells you this is your insurance,” I murmur, “you take it.”
“I’m not a monster.”
“No,” I sigh. “You’re the farthest thing from one. But when you want something and don’t get it… that’s what you become.”
He doesn’t deny it.
That’s why I was drawn to him in the first place—the monster I always sensed beneath that polished suit.
I pick up the pen. He watches my hand like it’s sacred as I sign.
When I reach to give it back, he stops me.
“Not so fast, Mila.”
His eyes turn dark, feral. “There’s more of me that belongs to you. Something you need to claim.”
He looms over me, scars and ink stretching across coiled muscle.
“Sign me everywhere, angel. Let everyone know I’m yours. Your property. Your fucking territory.”
The pen presses to his hip. I write Mila in looping letters that curve toward his groin.
He groans, cock twitching. “That’s it. Mark your man.”
I’ve never been this turned on in my life. I’m burning.
“Sign my cock,” he orders softly. “Make it official.”
I write my name along the shaft. He hisses, hips jerking. “Fuck—yes. Your name on my dick. You own this cock.”
He cups my chin. “Want it tattooed? I’d do it. Let you feel your claim every time I fuck you.”
The thought nearly makes me come on the spot.
I nod.
“These too,” he murmurs, squeezing his big balls. “Swollen with cum for you alone.”
I mark him there too.
He yanks me down by the hair, forcing me to my knees. “Suck them. Worship what you own.”
His balls dangle before me, inked with my name, and he shoves my face forward, smothering me in his musk. I lap at the heavy sac, drawing one into my mouth. He groans, fist tightening in my hair, yanking harder to make me take more, sucking deeper as his cock slaps against my cheek.
“Fuck, yes—suck your balls, baby. Feel how full they are? All that seed building just to flood you, mark you as mine.”
When he hauls me up again, slamming me against the wall, I’m shaking.
“My angel loves when I turn into her nightmare,” he says. “That’s why you stay.”
I do.
And it hurts that he ever thought I’d run—when I stayed for years while he gave me nothing.
“And you think I’ll bolt.”
“I know you could try,” he growls. “But I won’t let you.”
He kisses me savage and bruising, lifts me, and fucks me hard against the wall, splitting me open.
“Your cock owning your cunt,” he rasps.
I lock my ankles behind him, urging him on. He sinks his teeth into my collarbone, drawing blood that trickles warm between us, and I come undone. He erupts with a feral bellow, giving me exactly what belongs to me.